


All Boundaries Are Conventions

by sorrens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gabriel is a dick, Getting Together, God Ships It, Howlers (Harry Potter), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 23:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20460923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: Aziraphale's expulsion from Heaven comes in the form of a nasty Howler and, in the aftermath, he regrets ever recommending Harry Potter to Gabriel.But freedom has perks and boundaries begin to blur.





	All Boundaries Are Conventions

**Author's Note:**

> This one is short, sweet, sappy and was sitting in my drafts with nowhere to go.  
Our boys break some boundaries.
> 
> Title taken from a beautiful piece on the Cloud Atlas soundtrack

* * *

Freedom is dangerous.

Luckily, most people never come to realise the extent of freedom they have in their short lives.

That is, lucky, for the powers that be.

Freedom is chaos, and boundaries corral it, and steer it towards what we’ve come to appreciate to be civilised society. 

* * *

For two supernatural entities stranded in the relatively comfortable aftermath of an apocalypse that didn’t happen, however, this presents a few issues.

Firstly, and perhaps most obviously, they are not “people”. The length of their lives indeterminate, but infinite, if they just stayed out of harm’s way. Both armies of Harm’s Way were busy scheming how to kick start another apocalypse, but that was centuries away. It had to be, of course, what with bureaucracy and paperwork and the like.

Hell had expelled Crowley with a gruff “Don’t get up to shit topside.” A dishonourable discharge of sorts for their worst soldier. That was the last Crowley was to hear from them, at least in this century.

Heaven, it seemed, had expanded its communication resources. Aziraphale was used to “rude notes” sent from above, appearing from nowhere zooming and battering him around the head until he deigned to read them. But, after the apocalypse, it quickly became apparent that Gabriel had taken at least some of Aziraphale’s reading recommendations on board and put their ideas to “good” use. Heaven had begun to send Howlers.

An angel and a demon were lounging in a bookshop in Soho, drinking something terribly expensive and trying not to worry. As they got further through the bottle between them, causation began to work magic, and they worried less than when they started.

There was a slight click at the door.

“Cloooooosed.” Crowley bellowed out to any eager customer. It was 10:30pm. There was another click.

“It’s pretty bloody obvious we’re clooooooosed.” Aziraphale chimed in, head lolling in to his glass slightly. Crowley cackled.

There was a rustling as a small, red envelope approached the angel. Stopping directly in his eye line. It took Aziraphale a fraction of a second to collect himself before he sat bolt upright and shot an alarmed glance at Crowley.

“Wha—“

He was cut off by the envelope, which had opened wide, revealing a letter in gold script. It began to speak. A small red ribbon trailing from it darting around like a tongue.

The voice was upbeat, but monotone:

_“Aziraphale. Principality. Protector of the Eastern Gate. Traitor._

_Given recent events, it is with little regret that the council have decided you to be unfit for angelic duties for the time being. You are stripped of your current responsibilities and will no longer be within the care of your garrison, your higher ups and most certainly not privy to any communicated from the almighty Herself. Perhaps if we are feeling benevolent and in need of your aid, we may seek you. Though under such circumstances we would need to be reassured that you no longer affiliate with the likes of witches, demons and hell-spawn. You understand we take this very seriously._

_Until such time, should you wish to appeal this decision, please know that nobody is listening.”_

Gabriel’s voice had magnified to fill the whole bookshop.

Books rustled uneasily on their shelves as the letter burst in to flames and dropped to the ground.

Crowley lunged forward and caught it before it touched the worn rug.

Rather than extinguish the flame, he cupped both hands around the burning paper and let it crackle merrily. It lit up his face as he turned to the angel with a warm smile.

But Aziraphale wasn’t relieved, rather, he was shaking. Almost as if his world had toppled out from under him and, surely he knew this was going to happen eventually? Thought Crowley desperately. But knowing wasn’t quite the same as accepting. It was more difficult to be expelled from a place of love, however beurocratic and contrived, then from what Crowley had been freed from.

These boundaries that were the identity and the safety that the angel craved, had now been torn down, and he was faced with a great unknown. It was like being cast out of Eden and, suddenly, looking at Aziraphale’s broken expression, Crowley finally understood what a punishment it could be. Not an adventure, but a damning sentence.

He hastily extinguished the letter and brushed away the ashes before pulling Aziraphale in to a gentle hug.

The angel stiffened at his touch, and withdrew, eyes wide in panic, as though god Herself wont interject.

It was a boundary broken, and soon Aziraphale found himself leaning in.

It was a boundary broken and, it was all new, but it was good, and

“Is this freedom?” The angel mumbled into Crowley’s shoulder.

“Is think what you want freedom to be like?” The demon smiled, somewhat sadly, as though bracing for rejection.

He began to move towards the door in the silence that followed.

It was broken by a muffled sob from Aziraphale and, suddenly, he was stumbling forward into Crowley’s arms.

“Of course,” and this admission was a shock to the demon, though deep down Aziraphale had always known it. In fact, he was wrapping his head around the implications of freedom with alarming speed. For an entity so stubbornly resisted change, it only took a split second to consider his next move. But he’d already pressed his lips to Crowley’s before his brain caught up. The demon leaned in with a hunger and returned the kiss.

Later Crowley would make many a sly comment about the angel’s impulsiveness, which would make his companion colour slightly and almost melt with embarrassment. But when he regained composure, Aziraphale liked to remind the demon that it was not, in fact, a mistake.

He’d lean over and place a kiss on Crowley’s cheek and if it went further than that, well, to quote Gabriel “nobody was listening.*”

And if they were. . . what a bunch of perverts.

_*Decidedly untrue. The Almighty Herself was, unbeknownst to her foot soldiers, very invested in the lives of this particular pair. She let out a small shriek when they finally kissed and then then hurriedly changed the channel to watch the pigeons preying on attaches in St James' Park in case things escalated from there._


End file.
